Green Glass
by Neshomeh
Summary: Ethne stumbles on Vilkas' secret. (No, not that one, she already knows that one.) Sometimes you have to guard a shield-brother from himself. Spoilers for the Companions questline through the start of "Glory of the Dead."


Green Glass

Before lunch, Ethne went to Vilkas' room to return a book. The door was closed, but there was no answer when she knocked, so she went on in.

She was surprised to find Vilkas lying in bed, spread-eagle like one senseless, only haphazardly covered with his blanket half on the floor. Ethne stood still, afraid that he might wake up and equally afraid he might not. After a moment she satisfied herself that his chest rose and fell regularly, and she could hear his air. She breathed a sigh of relief.

In turning to put the book on the wooden trestle table to the right, her eyes fell on a curious tableau: a pitcher of water, a cup, and two green glass bottles. Ethne had learned a little basic herb lore as a child in High Rock and had worked behind the counter of a healer's shop in Cyrodiil for two years, so she knew a thing or two about potions. These two together concerned her. One was harmless enough: a concoction that would revive you if you were tired or fatigued, something any warrior would want to have in his back pocket. The other, though, was marked as a fairly potent soporific. It would calm the mind and ease the muscles—but in a large enough dose, it could relax you straight to death.

Vilkas didn't strike her as the type to poison his weapons. Rather the opposite: he, like all the Companions, would regard it as a treacherous tactic employed only by the weak and cowardly. That left only one logical reason he would have it, and its antagonist.

It was really, very much none of her business. Vilkas was a grown man who could make his own decisions, and he'd kill her if he knew she knew about this. She told herself she should just leave, but . . . he was her shield-brother, and Farkas' brother by blood. Was it not her duty to guard him from danger, even one he posed to himself?

She stood wrestling with her conscience too long. Vilkas stirred, and sat up, and caught her.

"What're you doing here?" he demanded groggily, pushing his dark hair back from his face with one hand.

Ethne held the book up in front of her defensively. "Bringing this back. That's all."

He might have bought it if she'd been a little smoother, but he wasn't so far out of it that he was insensible to her obvious nerves. He stood, squinting at her suspiciously. Their eyes darted to the trestle table at the same time, and it was all over.

"Damn it!" he snarled, and marched up to the table, thrusting her aside with one outflung arm. He pulled the door shut, swept up the bottles, and shoved them into the chest at the foot of the bed.

"Vilkas—" she started entreatingly.

"Not a word of this to anyone," he said roughly, rounding on her. "Not even my brother— _especially_ not my brother!"

"Vilkas—"

He stepped up to her menacingly. "And know that I won't tolerate any lip from you, either. You may be a member of the Circle in name, but you're still just a whelp to me!"

Ethne slammed the book down onto his desk. "Vilkas, will you shut up and listen to me for one blessed minute?"

He was stunned silent. She had never raised her voice to him before, and when the Dragonborn raised her voice, one couldn't help but take heed.

"I'm trying to tell you that I'm here for you, you ass! Mostly because it would break Farkas' heart if you accidentally poisoned yourself, but moreover, I'm your shield-sister, too, and I care about what happens to you, though you don't deserve it. Do you _know_ how dangerous it is, what you're doing?"

"Of course I do! You don't understand." He raked his fingers through his hair and turned away.

"I know more than you think," she snapped. "I know you're still grieving for Kodlak—we all are. I know you and Farkas have been refusing your transformations a long time. I know how bloody hard that is for me, and I know it's worse for you. I know your brother worries about you, though he's afraid to tell you, and now I know why he's right to be concerned."

Vilkas didn't respond, but stood with his head down, one hand holding onto the wooden privacy screen next to his bed for support. Ethne could see the play of knotted muscles under his skin with each harsh breath he took, and the scars. Her anger drained away.

"Listen, Vilkas. I'm not here to pass judgement. I won't tell anyone. If you want to talk, you can talk to me. If not, that's fine. Just be careful, please. Everyone looks up to you, especially now. You know that, right?"

His shoulders shuddered with a broken laugh. "All too well." He turned and sank down onto the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry, sister. You're right, about all of it. It's this damn curse!" He dug his nails into his scalp. "That fool Terrfyg is the one to blame—he was the Harbinger who made the deal with those witches that got us into this, did you know?"

Ethne nodded. Kodlak had told her the story before sending her to find the witches. It was the last conversation they had ever had.

She took Vilkas' open talk as an invitation and sat down in his desk chair. "I made Terrfyg's mistake myself. I was offered a blessing of great power, and Divines help me, but I thought I could use it if I'm supposed to defeat the World-Eater himself. Nobody told me the downside, either."

"We have all been deceived, for hundreds of years," he agreed. "I burn with rage, for myself and for the honor of the Companions. I haven't had a good night's sleep, unaided, in . . . " He shook his head. "I don't remember."

"It's going to get better," Ethne said gently. "We have all the fragments of Wuuthrad. When Eorlund has reforged it, we'll go to Ysgramor's Tomb and cleanse Kodlak's spirit. And then, if that works, we'll know what to do. We'll free ourselves, too."

He looked at her sidelong. "I wish I shared your optimism."

Sensing the interview was over, Ethne rose and, taking a risk, put her hand on Vilkas' bare, hard shoulder and squeezed. He seemed surprised, but didn't throw her off, so she counted it as a victory.

"Trust me," she said. "And . . . maybe put some trousers on and come get something to eat? It's nearly noon."

He rolled his eyes and pulled away. "Don't presume to mother me, whelp."

"Stop calling me 'whelp'." She folded her arms. "You don't have to like me, but I've done more than enough to deserve a little respect by now."

His lips pulled back from his teeth, but he wasn't snarling at her. "You have," he admitted. "Ethne, then. You should go now. I am not myself. But I'll be upstairs soon, and perhaps we might meet in the yard later. Unless you think you've grown so mighty with that axe of yours that there isn't still a thing or two you could learn from a more experienced fighter?"

This, she realized, was by way of offering a truce with no hard feelings. She agreed. "I want to tell you, I look up to you, too," she added. "You're someone I know the people of Skyrim can rely on to defend them without getting caught up in religion and politics. I wish there were more like you."

He made an amused sort of grunt. "Don't think I'll go easy on you out there if you sweet-talk me. Get going already!"

She smiled. "Wouldn't dream of it. See you later."

* * *

AN: So, this follows my first Ethne story, "A Friend in Deed." If things keep going the way they are, there will eventually be a bunch of these that I'll string together into a proper story, but for now it's One-Shots-R-Us. I hope I didn't make any serious mistakes in this one like I did the last one, but if I did, let me know and I'll fix them. {= )

Where this came from: I was poking around in the twins' rooms looking for character clues, and boy did I ever find one for Vilkas. Poor bugger. I've got another idea about the lute in Farkas' room, because you know there's a story there.

Help me, I can't stop. {X D


End file.
